Strange Angel
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: Reflecting on moments spent with the Phantom, Christine learns to regret... From their first encounter to the dreams she has of him now, she believes she should have made a different choice. Please read and review! Reviews much appreciated!
1. First Encounter

Difficult to find a title that hasn't been used.... both the book and the play are full of fantastic phrases that people latch onto for everything... huh. Anyway, a one-or-two(or three)shot on Christine and Erik and possibly Raoul: emotions, relationships, characters. Nothing changed from the story, really, and I'm taking plot points from the book, the musical, and the movie... oh, and also, reviews are so much appreciated as this is my first Phantom fic, and will be responded to with all due haste. Thanks much!

First Encounter

It was all such a long time ago.

That night, she thought she heard her father's voice. It sighed around her room, enveloping her in its quiet mystery. She was so young, just eighteen— old enough to know better, still yet too young to act on the knowledge. Young enough to believe in faeries— old enough to know they would never come to her.

But _something_ did—

_Christine—_

She started out of the half-comatose state she was in, looked around her wildly. Usually after a show she was vibrant, excited, rosy-cheeked, starry-eyed, vital, alive, awake. It was something in the air that night, she supposed, that had put her in such a reflective, introspective frame of mind— yet she was astounded to hear voices, voices calling her out of her stupor, beckoning her with sheer sound. It was quiet at first, then grew louder, still simply calling her name.

_Christine— _

She pushed herself to her feet, opened her mouth and cried aloud. _"Father!" _before she could help herself. There was no answer, the voices ceased abruptly, and she was left desolate and alone. She cried stormily for a few moments, never having felt so bereft, not even when her father died.

Then she felt a gaze on her as sure and certain as a touch, gentle as a kiss.

Slowly she raised her tear-reddened face and looked about her. She could see no one, but could feel a presence more definite than any she had yet known. There was the smell of lightning in the air, and rain, and rose petals.

Her lips trembled but she could not speak.

He spoke for her.

"_Child, do not be frightened. I have need of you, your grace, your spirit, your voice, your face_—"

She managed to speak— "I am not afraid." Though her voice belied her.

"_No, no, I see you are not. You are strong, and brave, and you will give me assistance— lend me your faith, the purity of heart_—"

"I give it freely," she said at once. There was no doubt in her mind, nor room for doubt— if it was not her father who spoke, it was the one he had sent. The one he had promised to send if ever he could— her Angel of Music, to cherish and guide her.

He taught her to let her voice be free.

In three short months, she had changed, become abstracted and cautious, no longer quite the same laughing young girl. In odd moments her eyes looked haunted, large and luminous as they were. He was there every night, waiting for her, living so obviously only for her that she was flattered and humbled both. She could not deny him. He was hers, and she his.

Her voice was free.

Her soul was imprisoned.

At the time, she thought it a most fair and usual balance.


	2. Dream Lover

Yay, three reviews! Thanks very much, Pearli (I am always indebted to first-reviewers) and Moonjava (I think I've seen your name on other Phantom reviews.... glad you're weighing in) and of course Sephira (are you following me? :) Great to see you. So this is probably the.... (tries to think of appropriate word).... um, sexiest, maybe? Sexiest thing I've ever written. I think. Maybe. Give it a shot.

Dream Lover

_In my mind I have already imagined/ our bodies entwining, defenseless and silent_—

In his eyes there was a surety that she could not deny. He was hers as much as she was his. His voice echoed in her head—

_What sweet seduction lies before us—_

How had he crawled into her mind that way, fashioned for himself a hole in her heart that only he could fill? Didn't she have enough to deal with, parentless, alone, without this kind of dogged devotion relentlessly traveling with her? It did not sleep, this emotion. It did not tire. It did not give up. It was never-ending.

She felt his hands on her waist.

His eyes followed her wherever she went.

She removed his glove and kissed his long, perfect fingers.

He was pitiful, and sad, and proud, and unapproachable, and disfigured, and alone, and wanting. She was wanting too.

What to do? What to do?

Wasn't she in love? Wasn't one love enough in one life?

Wasn't there any end to these questions?

She asked him the last one, silently, and his eyes answered _Yes_.

Come with me.

Come to me.

Come.

Down.

Down.

Now.

She awoke, breathless, panting, and the next day went around with lowered gaze and blushing cheeks, unable to meet the eyes of her husband for fear he should see.


	3. Second Thoughts

Thank you convoitez (if that's spelt right its probably on accident) and Katherine Silverhair... love getting new readers... and Sephira, its after the previously chronicled events (that sounded pompous, didn't it?:) She's gotten married to Raoul, and it could either be years after or a few months, either one. Though I like to think of Christine looking back on those times after several years have passed... makes it more poignant, somehow. Anyway, here's the next chapter, enjoy!

Second Thoughts

"— _If Erik were good-looking, would you love me, Christine?"_

A very long time ago, Raoul had asked her that. She had answered quickly in her terror of losing him (_"Oh my betrothed, if I did not love you—"_) without giving adequate though to the question he had put to her.

She had seen him without the mask.

She knew him to the depths of his soul.

His eyes burned into her as he looked at her, left marks upon her skin that, she was sure, would be visible to everyone. When he touched her, as he rarely dared to do, she shivered away like a mirage.

_Dynamic_ was one word that came to mind when she thought of him.

_Insane_, unfortunately, was another.

Now, on final reflection, she found she did not mind so much his disfigured face quite so much as his disfigured mind. She was fiercely proud of this.

"I did not reject him because he was imperfect!" she once railed at a calm evening sky. For days after her wedding to Raoul she felt as though God were looking rather disapprovingly over her shoulder.

"_You rejected my child, my musical genius, left him to rot and disintegrate into dust down below in that cellar, that cold, cold cellar, that dungeon of hate, that cathedral of despair, that altar to all that is unholy—"_

"He chose to kill," she whispered to herself, seeking to reassure her own mind. She lied, and she knew it. He had chosen nothing. Fate had conspired against him, hell was thrust upon him—

Poor Erik! Poor Erik!

Her mind resounded with it, like a bell struck.

Poor Erik! The poor, left, lost, alone, piteous, abject, unfortunate, miserable, damaged, deranged, maligned, maleficent, malevolent, demonic, angelic, spiteful, solitary, betrayed Erik!

If he had been handsome, would she not love him?

That question was not entirely fair, for she found, on reflection, that she did love him. She loved his dark soul, and the abject terror in his eyes. His pride. His subsequent fall.

If he had been handsome, would she have loved him— _enough_?

Ah, there was the crux of the matter. What was _enough_, anyway? Enough to save him from his deeds, from his punishment that was due, from himself? Enough to leave her life behind and live with him forever, existing and dying below the Opera Populaire (dying probably of influenza, or cold, that cellar was so damp)?

She did not know.

That was what drove her crazy, that she did not know.

She found out, in the course of a lifetime well and truly spent, what regret was. It was a longing to go back and try another option, take another choice, test out the alternatives. A wish to experiment with fate—_ I wonder what would happen if—?_

If he had been handsome enough, or if she had been strong enough.

A lifetime spent with Erik, as compared to a lifetime spent with Raoul.

The two of them alone forever, as compared to the children and grandchildren that followed her around incessantly, demanding her attention.

An angel of music as compared to a husband that stifled her talent, requesting her to be quiet, as he had a headache.

_The grass is always greener_, Christine, she told herself. _Always._

Still she regretted, and it haunted her to the day of her death.

Erik, on the other hand, had spent so much of his life haunted by everything, that he committed suicide soon after she left him and thus was saved from a lifetime of doubt and defeat.


	4. Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered

_Thanks for the reviews, everybody—_

_**Sephira Netzach**— aw, that's sweet. I love you too. I agree, very Zen. I love to psycho-analyze characters. Its fun, and as long as you don't tell anyone else your conclusions, no one can say you're wrong... :)_

_**Jamy**, this is the last chapter, a little more upbeat way to end things— _

_**Aries-Chica56**— glad you liked it, hope you like this one too._

_**Tactics**— (hi, by the way) I know, it isn't fair is it? Well, that's the way the cookie is dropped on the floor, stomped on, and totally obliterated._

_So, I think this is the last chapter, though I'm considering writing another Phantom fic. We'll see how that goes._

_Very quickly I want to tell you about something kind of odd— when I was little, probably seven or so, my mom was cleaning out her room and going through stuff, and she found this little ring. Its pretty small, and just a plain silver band. Anyway the weird thing was that inside, someone had carved the name "Erik" and then the initials "E.L." We have never met anyone named Erik, and never seen the ring before, and my mom had no idea how it came to be in her jewelry box. This is true, I am not making it up. I still have the ring. Anyway it was a mystery I always enjoyed— and then I read "Phantom of the Opera" and of course it took on some new meaning..._

_About the last chapter: at the end of the Leroux's Phantom book, Erik says he is dying of love, and then there is a notice in the paper that says "Erik Is Dead." I think everyone has different interpretations of it— for myself, I think he did commit suicide, in that incarnation anyway. I can't see Susan Kay's Phantom doing that, or Andrew Lloyd Webbers— but Leroux's, yes. But I didn't want to end this fic on such a downer note, so I decided to make this one the last chapter._

_This one is very, very much based on the Gerard Butler version.... read and find why._

Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered

Strangely enough, there was one incident that stood out in the minds of the Phantom and Christine both, when they reflected on the time they had spent together.

A duet.

He had hit a wrong note.

This was, of course, impossible. Christine stopped singing immediately and stared at him, eyes wide, mouth open. She could not speak. He had sung to her for three months and ever his voice had been faultless. Now he had been reaching too high, extending his voice beyond where it was willing to go—

The air was tense.

She didn't know what to do.

There was surprise in his eyes as well as in hers.

"I," he said, and stopped to clear his throat. When he had done this he seemed not to be able to find the next word he wanted.

Were there no words for this situation?

When your Angel of Music suddenly falters in the middle of a lesson, what _exactly_ do you say?

"_Excuse you_," was out of the question. It wasn't as though he had hiccoughed, or belched, or anything like that.

"_Beg your pardon_?" seemed woefully inadequate.

Should she reassure him? "_That's alright, dear, try again_," seemed so condescending.

In the end she could not bear to say anything at all, and for some moments they simply stared at each other wordlessly. She had time to notice how blue his eyes were.

Then—

Wonder of wonders!

He smiled.

Not a tentative, brief, uncertain kind of smile, either. A big one, broad, teeth showing, total enjoyment radiating from his face. She smiled back.

He laughed.

Not the maniacal laughter of a mind unhinged, as she feared and flinched from, but a chuckle as musical as his voice. She laughed as well.

For a brief moment, they enjoyed each other's company as if it were the most natural thing in the world. This was their single and only glimpse of what their lives would have been like, had he been a normal man, had she met him in an average social setting, had they fallen in love together without a hint of dangerous obsession, and been married, and spent their lives together till a ripe old age— this is how they would have laughed at the birth of their first grandchild.

This was the moment that stood out in their minds the most.

Well, that and the kiss, which burned in their memories like a throbbing flame, a mark branded on their souls (especially his). She could not think of that kiss without blushing— he could not consider it without rejoicing.

But the laughter, as laughter goes, was perfect.

And after their deaths, the moment lived on.


End file.
